Duncan sat on the rocks long after Eglantine’s tale ended, knowing sleep would elude him this night, and watched the moon rise high. Far behind him, her camp slumbered. Far ahead of him, the broch was a shadow against the blackness of the night, his own company slumbering there.
A thousand stars were scattered across the sky, looking close enough to be plucked. The dark waves lapped at his feet, lulling him with their rhythm.
’Twas a night made for magic, a night upon which any dream might come true, a night befitting of a tale. He watched a star shoot across the heavens, wondering what wish he should make, and knew it involved Eglantine and her fur-lined cloak.
And her teeth against his flesh.
Duncan had long believed that Mhairi haunted him, but Cormac’s lost daughter could not come close to Eglantine’s power to torment. He had never met a woman who blazed like Eglantine, never met a woman who could sear his soul with her touch.
But Eglantine had avoided him the rest of this day. He had caught but one glimpse of her, earlier this evening, with her hair unbound and her expression oddly vulnerable. He had been nigh felled by a desire to hold her close, to fight her dragons, to assail whatever stood in her path.
He did not want her to shun him. He wanted to touch her again. He wanted to talk to her. He wanted to finish that argument, if need be, then reconcile abed.
Eglantine, however, insisted upon slaying her dragons alone. Still her tale echoed through his thoughts, explaining so much, while the words she did not utter explained so more.
He wanted to injure the man who had sired Esmeraude and found himself disappointed that the man was already dead.
’Twas then he heard a faint splash.
He turned, expecting to see naught, and froze. A vision wrought of moonlight and unaware of his presence, Eglantine eased to the lip of the sea. Her hair was unfurled around her shoulders and shimmering silver beneath the moon’s caressing light. A heavy cloak was wrapped around her, the collar high against the chill. She bent hesitantly, as though not trusting the sea, and Duncan smiled at the caution of Eglantine.
She dipped something into the inky waves. Duncan dared to turn fully, moving silently, half afraid she would flee, half afraid she was naught but a vision wrought by his restless thoughts.
But ’twas Eglantine, not surprisingly immune to his fanciful mood. Aye, she scrubbed a length of pale cloth with purpose, holding it periodically up to the light then bending to rinse it again.
Ever pragmatic, that was his countess.
Duncan smiled.
“If ’tis a stain left by the fey, ’twill not come out so readily as that,” he called softly. The lady started despite his low tone, spun, then caught her breath when she spied him.
Their gazes held for a long moment, though her features were half-shadowed. She held the dripping cloth before herself, as though ’twould protect her, and spoke formally.
“I would thank you for the ballad this night, for ’twas most fortuitously timed.”
Duncan inclined his head in acknowledgement, then frowned, wishing he could melt the chill in her tone. “I would speak with you, after this day.”
Eglantine ignored his entreaty and did not move. “Is it the same song you sang last eve?”
“Aye.” Duncan noted that she did not draw near to him. “Were you injured this day? ’Twas not my intent, Eglantine...”
“I was not hurt,” she retorted, then lifted her chin as she changed the topic. “What is the song about? I did not understand the words.”
Duncan shrugged dismissively. “’Tis naught but an old tale.” He stood, relieved when she lingered. “Eglantine, I would speak with you this night...”
Eglantine shook her head. “I doubt ’tis merely an old song. ’Tis sad, I would wager, a tale of love and loss. ’Tis a tale that lies too close to your heart to be merely some old tale, Duncan. You do not fool me.”
Duncan looked away, wanting her to stay but not wanting to share the truth of this. “’Tis naught. I but prefer old tales.”
“Liar,” she charged softly.
Duncan scowled, disliking the charge no less than the fact that in this case, ’twas true. “What of the tale you told this night? Was it a lie, or a fiction concocted to ease a child?”
Eglantine’s defiance crumbled, vulnerability making a fleeting appearance. “You heard?”
“Aye.”
She caught her breath and tried to hide her dismay. “’Twas not your right.”
“Nay, ’twas not,” he acknowledged, then took a step closer. “Is it true?”
Eglantine heaved a sigh and looked across the water in turn. Her admission was so low that ’twould have been lost in the lap of the sea if Duncan had not been listening so closely. “Aye. More or less.” She rubbed her brow and might have turned away, but Duncan lunged forward and caught at her elbow.
“How did he ensure the babe loved him best?” He was surprised to hear the thrum of anger in his words. “’Twas what you said in your tale and I heard the ache in your words. How dare he treat you with such disregard, after you had borne him a child?”
Eglantine also appeared surprised by his response. She met his gaze questioningly.
“Theobald indulged Esmeraude overmuch, ’tis all.” She sighed. “And like all children, she preferred the sweet to the stern.”
“Tell me more of it.”
“I am tired,” she insisted, then frowned and would have abandoned him there.
The offer came so impulsively to Duncan’s lips that ’twas uttered before he considered it. “I will translate the song for you first.”
“Why should I indulge you again?”
Duncan spared her his most winning smile. “Because I truly want to know. I confessed to you already, Eglantine, that I have a rare passion for the truth.”
Their gazes held and he tingled at the heat that lit her gaze. Then she shook her head and glanced back toward her tent. “You are a man of rare persistence, Duncan MacLaren,” she charged, though there was no recrimination in her tone.
He grinned. “Stubborn, Cormac called it, but then he was not a man to gild either rose or a thorn.” A wistful smile touched Eglantine’s lips and Duncan was encouraged that she did not hasten away.
“You were fond of this Cormac.”
Duncan nodded, unashamed of this. “Aye. He was uncommonly good to me.”
“You heard how the child fought me,” she said softly. “I suppose I owe you some due for your aid.”
Unspeakably relieved, Duncan gestured to his smooth seating as though ’twas a fine throne. Eglantine hovered as she considered the spot, poised like a doe prepared to flee.
“’Tis cold. Perhaps the morrow would be better for such tales.”
“Now or not at all.” Duncan held her gaze steadily, wishing he knew how to reassure her. “My tale is long. You had best be seated.”
She sat abruptly as though ’twas a trial to be endured. She averted her features from Duncan and folded her hands tightly together. “You must not think poorly of Theobald,” she said, the words falling in a breathless rush and he was astounded that she would defend the man.
Was this her guilt speaking? Duncan could not guess.
“Theobald had long wanted a child of his own blood. Esmeraude was his first and his only. He saw the closeness I had with Jacqueline and wanted a measure of that himself.”
“But surely she had to be nursed?”
Eglantine’s words were flat. “He preferred that she should have nursemaids, as they could be changed at frequent intervals.” She pleated her cloak hastily, frowning down at her busy fingers as though unaware of what they did. “He insisted that she be granted every frippery, but ’tis not good for a child to be undisciplined, to be so spoiled.”
Duncan’s anger gained new vigor at more signs of the man’s selfishness. “And so ’twas left to you to decline the child.”
Eglantine nodded, her head bowed. “Someone had to say no. ’Tis only human nature that Esmeraude preferred her papa, he who granted her all, to everyone else.”
“And so Esmeraude was devastated when he died.”
Eglantine smiled softly. “Who could hold a candle to such an indulgent parent?”
Duncan’s heart clenched. He placed one hand on Eglantine’s shoulder, unable to stop himself from offering sympathy where ’twas clearly due. Eglantine had felt as much pain from this as Esmeraude, of that Duncan had no doubt. “You take the blame for another’s crime, Eglantine.”
“Nay. I should have known better.”
“’Twas his fault,” he argued heatedly. “No father should have asked as much. ’Twas wrong of him, and the wrong of you blaming yourself does not make it right.”
She looked up, clearly surprised by his defense of her.
“Love is not a commodity to be hoarded, Eglantine, though I suspect you know as much.” Duncan smiled for her, shaken by the uncertainty lingering in her eyes. “You took great strides this night in making your repair.”
Eglantine’s smile did not light her eyes. “’Twould have all been lost without your song. I thank you again for your aid.”
He studied her, watching the moonlight play over her features. “Why did you come to Ceinn-beithe?” he asked quietly, sensing that she would not deny him the truth on this night. The moonlight seemed to have softened her formidable defenses, or perhaps it had been Esmeraude’s acceptance that had done as much.
Eglantine sighed. “For my daughters. I came to grant Alienor, Jacqueline and Esmeraude the chance to each find a man who loved her with all his heart and soul. I would have them wed for love, not obligation, I would have them find happiness in marriage, even as I did not.”
Duncan blinked. ’Twas a noble quest fitting of an old tale, an objective so selfless that it snared Duncan’s heart as surely as the lady’s clear green gaze.
’Twas a goal that appealed deeply to him that he could not summon an agreement to his lips, so surprised was he to hear such frivolity fall from the lips of practical Eglantine.
“I know ’tis madness,” she said forcefully, obviously misinterpreting his silence as censure. “I know it defies convention, but surely there is naught amiss in a mother wanting to ensure her children’s happiness?” Eglantine took a deep breath and folded her arms across her chest.
“And ’tis not so foolish as that,” she insisted, as though fully expecting him to argue with her. “Some people are so fortunate as to wed for love. My own brother is smitten with his bride. And his friend pursued his love to the ends of the earth, for the image of that lady was burned so deeply upon his heart that he could not be happy with another.”
“This sounds like an old tale,” Duncan ventured.
“Aye.” A smile touched Eglantine’s lips, then was gone. “’Tis a stirring tale and mine own inspiration.” To Duncan’s surprise, the lady’s eyes clouded with tears. She raised a clenched fist to her heart. “My daughters deserve that manner of love, that manner of marriage. I have brought them to the ends of Christendom to grant them that opportunity.
“You may mock my intent to launch a bride quest from Kinbeath.” She struggled to pronounce the “-th”, the effort clearly vexing her, and Duncan cursed himself for his earlier teasing. “You may even mock my foolishness in having such a dream for my daughters. But I have lived the alternative, and I shall see them happily wed to deserving men, if ’tis the last deed I achieve in this life.”
Duncan surveyed her in silence, humbled by her selflessness. There was no doubt in his mind that she shared the truth with him, no doubt that this was her real objective.
“You ask naught for yourself.”
Eglantine stared at him steadily. “I have no dreams for myself any longer.”
’Twas the saddest claim that Duncan had ever heard.
“Whyever not?”
“I am too aged for dreams.” Eglantine blinked quickly as though clearing her eyes of tears and continued hastily. “I have said too much this night and ’tis clear I have need of sleep. If you do not mean to share your tale with me, then I shall retire.” She made to rise, but Duncan halted her with a touch.
He knew he had no right to keep his tale from her, not after eavesdropping on her own tale and winning this further confession from her. And he did not want to. Nay, Eglantine’s choice was fitting of a bard’s tale—and ’twas a choice that could only snare the heart of the bard Duncan was.
His intuition told him what he must do, though the boldness of the idea made his heart pound. Not only was Eglantine passionate, but she professed to having a poet’s heart, just like his own. Eglantine never stepped away from a fight. She had no fear of stating her mind, she was clever, she was romantic and she did not fear him.
’Twas just like an old tale—once what is sought is forgotten, ’tis always found. Duncan had long ago ceased to search for a bride and partner—and he had found the woman of his heart in the most unlikely of places.
He did not intend to let her go. Her heart was wounded, but Duncan knew that he held the perfect balm.
’Twas time he began to woo Eglantine.
* * *
Eglantine thought Duncan would share his song with her, but instead he laid claim her hand. He held it gently within his own, and she could not help but note the contrast between his broad roughened palm, his tanned skin, and the smallness of her own hand.
’Twas better than thinking of the shiver his touch launched over her flesh.
He stroked her hand with his thumb, frowning as though he sought the words, looking so concerned that she did not have it within her to draw away. Then Duncan looked up suddenly.
“My lady Eglantine, I would ask that you consider me to be the first suitor to call at your court.”
Whatever Eglantine had expected him to say, ’twas not that. She stared at him but Duncan appeared to be as earnest as she had ever seen him. “You?”
He scowled and she knew she had insulted him. “Aye, me. I am the chieftain of Clan MacQuarrie, the closest equivalent to a lord of the manor in these parts.” His grip tightened ever so slightly upon her hand, as though he would emphasize his words with his touch. “I am eligible, I am of an age to wed, and I seek a bride.”
“You.” Still it made no sense. “But you declined Alienor this very day. Indeed, you were most insulted...” Eglantine’s words faded, but Duncan lifted her hand to his lips. She shivered as he pressed a kiss to her palm, his gaze fixed upon her.
“I would not court Alienor.” His expression was determined, his gaze intense, as he closed her fingers deliberately over the heat of his kiss.
Eglantine had some difficulty marshaling her thoughts.
“You protested Alienor because of her age,” she managed to say.
Duncan smiled and folded her hand between his two larger ones, his touch warming her to her toes. “Among other attributes.” One brow rose roguishly. “Or lack of them.”
Eglantine shook her head, not seeing the humor. “But Jacqueline is yet younger.”
“I do not court Jacqueline either,” he said silkily, the movement of his thumbs dismissing all argument.
Eglantine could not draw a full breath into her chest and marveled at this man’s ability to addle her thoughts. Suddenly she was all too aware that she had donned naught but her cloak this night, that the fur lining brushed directly against her skin.
And Duncan held her hand as though he would never let it go. Eglantine was sorely tempted to lean on him, to confide in him, to indulge her instinct that this man was most like her father of all the men she had known. The moonlight wrought illusions, persuading her that he would ensure his woman’s safety, her health, her happiness.
But that was madness.
Was it not?
“Fret not, my lady,” Duncan smiled slowly, his voice low and reassuring. “I shall prove to you that I am the ilk of man you seek. I shall prove to you that I am a man who understands the fragile treasure of dreams.”
Aye, she more than half believed it, in this moment at least. Eglantine stared into the stormy grey of his eyes and feared she would lose what was left of her resistance.
“The song,” she whispered unevenly.
Duncan studied her before he turned away. He braced his elbows upon his knees and stared over the shimmer of the sea. Though he looked to have slipped away to another place and time, Eglantine was very aware of his heat beside her own.
Then he began to sing and Eglantine closed her eyes, deliberately pushing all from her awareness but the rich splendor of his voice.
“Ceinn-beithe is old and its stones remember all
Its circle in old days every handfast did call
But one mating these stones ne’er did see
And that was the pledge of the maiden Mhairi.
Mhairi was stubborn, stubborn and proud
And she refused to wed the man her father had chose
Instead she would decide whose bride she would be
She vowed to have only her love Ruaraidh.
Down came her father and he stood at the door
Saying “Mhairi, you are trying the tricks of a whore,
You care nothing for a man who cares so much for thee
You must marry my choice and leave Ruaraidh.”
For your Ruaraidh is barely but a man
Although he may be pretty but where are his lands?
Your betrothed’s lands are broad and his towers they run high
You must marry my choice and leave Ruaraidh.”
Eglantine was glad her eyes were closed for she felt a measure of privacy from Duncan’s perceptiveness. She felt her hands fold together, her fingers knotting tightly. Aye, she could sympathize with Mhairi well enough, though she had not been so fortunate as to have a true love when her own nuptials were called.
“Mhairi would not cede to her father’s bidding
To Ceinn-beithe no man on the isle could her bring
The blessing of that place her own match denied
She swore ’twould show she was no willing bride.
“You who are my father may compel me to marry
But this betrothed I will ne’er bear his seed
To a son or a daughter I will ne’er bow my knee
For I will die if denied my love Ruaraidh.”
The sentiment made Eglantine’s heart pound. This was what she desired for her daughters, after all. Perhaps she had misunderstood his intent, though she could not imagine how. She slanted a glance toward Duncan, noting the absorption revealed in his expression. Was that why he had chosen this song? Was it truly the same song he had sung before, or had he changed it once he had heard her tale?
How far could she trust him?
Indeed, could she trust him at all?
“‘Come to me, my Mhairi, my honey and my sweet
To stile you, my mistress, it would be so sweet’
So cried her husband when Mhairi missed their feast
But Mhairi had naught good in reply to his pleas.
“Be it mistress or Mhairi, ’tis all the same to me
But in your bed, my husband, I never will be.”
And down came her father and he spoke with a frown
Saying “You who are her maidens—go loosen up her gown.”
But Mhairi fell down to the floor
And lay pale before his knee
Saying “Father, look, I’m dying
For my love Ruaraidh.”
Eglantine raised one hand to her lips in horror, but Duncan did not so much as glance her way. His voice dropped lower, the words making her eyes prick with tears.
“The day that Mhairi married
was the day that Mhairi died
And the day that young Ruaraidh came home on the tide
And down came her maidens all wringing of their hands
Saying “Oh you were so long, so long upon the sands
They have married your Mhairi and now she lies dead.”
His heart struck cold, Ruaraidh bowed his head.
He kissed Mhairi’s cold lips while he wept
And soon ’twas more than Mhairi who there lay dead.
Ceinn-beithe is old and its stones remember all
Its circle in old days every handfast did call
But one marriage these stones ne’er did see
And ill-fated was the match of maid Mhairi.”
Duncan held the last note, then slowly turned to face Eglantine beside him. “That is beautiful,” she whispered in wonder.
He shrugged, dull red creeping up his neck. “’Tis more lovely in the original Gael.”
“Then it must be a marvel indeed.”
His gaze brightened so that Eglantine could not hold it, not without knowing his thoughts. She turned and stared over the water, hugging her knees, haunted by the tune and her sense that ’twas more than a mere tale to him. But where was the key to understanding Duncan in this recounting? In the choice of tale itself?
Or had he known the star-crossed lovers?
Or was he but a bard, as he claimed, who dug into his trove of tales and presented the first one that came to hand? Eglantine did not know, and worse, she did not know how to find out.
“But a poor fellow can do no more than his best,” Duncan muttered. He smiled thinly when Eglantine glanced his way. “’Tis an old saying oft recounted by one of my men.”
“The song does sound better in your tongue, less dire and more melodic.” Eglantine nodded. “More passionate.”
“Aye. Each tongue has its own music, its own range.” Duncan frowned, as though he might say more, then slanted her an unexpected grin. Eglantine sensed that he deliberately changed the subject, but her heart lurched painfully all the same.
That dark hair hung unruly over his brow, the glint of mischief in his eyes hinting that he knew the turmoil of her thoughts, no less that he was responsible for it. He eased closer, his shoulder bumping hers companionably and Eglantine’s mouth went dry.
“’Tis the way of the Gael to linger upon the price of love gone awry.” He surveyed her, that perceptiveness in his gaze. “And you seem to know much of that subject yourself. Why did you cede to this Theobald?”
“He was my husband and thus owed my dutiful agreement.”
Duncan laughed aloud, the merry sound making her own lips twitch. “That, I wager, would not have stopped your heated disagreement.”
Their gazes locked for a telling moment, then Eglantine shook her head and looked away. “I loved him. Have you never granted a loved one their desire, simply because ’twas within your power to do so?”
’Twas Duncan’s turn to avert his gaze and frown. “Aye.” He slanted a quick glance her way. “But it seems that I am not the only one to have regretted such a course.”
Eglantine could not catch her breath, nor could she look away from his darkened gaze. Eglantine saw his hand rise and knew he meant to touch her, knew she would melt against him if he did so.
But the reminder of Theobald was too close. Surely she had enough evidence of her poor fortune with men?
She inched away quickly, not trusting herself to resist him if his hand landed upon her, and asked the first question that fell from her lips. “Why do you alone speak French of your men?”
Duncan’s hand fell. The change in his expression revealed all too well that Eglantine had touched upon a subject he would prefer to avoid.
To her surprise, he answered. “Because I alone traveled south.”
“Where did you go?”
“South.” His lips flattened to a grim line.
“Where in the south?” He did not reply, so Eglantine suggested possibilities, intending only to prompt him. “Norman England? France? Spain?”
“South.” He gave her a look that was undoubtedly supposed to be a deterrent to further questioning.
Eglantine was not deterred. Here was something of import to him, and she meant to know the truth. “Why did you go?”
“’Twas time.”
“There must have been a specific reason...”
She got no further before Duncan pushed to his feet, effectively ending their conversation. “If you will excuse me, ’tis late.” He turned and left, his footsteps so fleet that Eglantine wondered whether he feared she would pursue him.
Or demand his honesty.
But that was madness. Duncan was afraid of naught, and he certainly was not afraid of her. Eglantine reluctantly wrung out her chemise one last time and looked after Duncan.
But he was gone. For the first time in recent encounters, he had not kissed her. Eglantine was honest enough with herself to admit she was disappointed.
The wolves howled in the distance, as foreign and unpredictable as the man who had just left her side. Eglantine shivered, then hastened back to her bed. Truly, she had to ensure she had more sleep. The deprivation was beginning to affect her good temper.
Not to mention her judgment.
* * *
The lady’s timing had not been the best.
No sooner had Duncan realized that she was the one he sought, than Eglantine managed to awaken his unwelcome memories of Mhairi. Aye, there was a tale that would tempt a man to avoid nuptials for all his days and nights, a poor augury for marital bliss indeed.
He walked along the shore as had become his wont, savoring the sounds of wind and wave, the muted music of night, the distant warbling of the wolves. ’Twas a long time before he freed himself of the grip of guilt, so long that new clouds had obscured the moon and rain was promised by the wind.
But Eglantine was not like Mhairi. She was not an innocent maiden, she was not fragile of spirit and delicate of build, she was certainly not besotted with him without cause.
She certainly would never make the foolish choice Mhairi had made. Nay, not Eglantine. Duncan smiled to himself. The lady was wrought of sterner stuff than Mhairi had been.
Duncan heaved a sigh and returned to the broch, ducking into the passageway just as the rain began to patter on the stones overhead. Gillemore grunted and kicked the small fire back to life, the embers belching smoke into the small space before they began to flicker.
And ’twas only then, as the flames vied with the first fingers of dawn to cast light around the hut that Duncan realized something was amiss.
Aye, Iain was gone.
* * *
Eglantine awakened when Célie shook her shoulder. She had lain awake half the night, then slept badly, only falling into a deep slumber when the rain began to fall on the roof of the tent. ’Twas chill and damp again, and Eglantine was certain morning had come too soon.
Indeed, ’twas barely light.
“My lady, you must come.” Célie’s voice was low and urgent. “Gunter and Gerhard are upset beyond all else.”
Eglantine pushed the weight of her hair from her face and sat up in confusion. “Gunter and Gerhard are the most tranquil souls in all the household. Are you certain of this?”
“Aye, my lady.” Célie nodded hastily. “Their stores have been plundered and all are certain ’tis the labor of the restless souls who desire us gone from this place.”
Eglantine swung her legs from the bed, wincing at the cold of the air for a moment before she hauled on her kirtle. She laced the sides with impatient fingers, her anger beginning to hum.
What nonsense did the moonlight make! Had Duncan deliberately distracted her while his men wreaked havoc? Or had he fled her side after enchanting her with his tale only to put her entire company’s survival at risk?
Oh, she had been a fool to trust him, however briefly!
“There is but one soul who desires us gone from this place, Célie,” she said sharply. “And he is not dead.” She spared the startled girl an ominous glance. “But then, I have not finished with him as yet.”
Leaving the maid behind, Eglantine strode from the tent.
’Twas far worse than she had imagined.
The sacks of flour had been cut open, their contents scattered across the ground and already joined to the mud underfoot. Grain had been spilled similarly, a remaining trail indicating that much had been dumped into the sea. Pots and pans had been scattered in the woods, the tinder and firewood so painstakingly gathered had been cast into the rain and rendered useless.
The fowl had been released, only their cries discernible in the woods. Most undoubtedly had fallen prey to the wildlife resident here. God alone knew what had happened to the goats and Esmeraude was already crying for milk. Even the rabbits left to hang had been cut down and left for the ravens, which made a hearty feast of it even as Eglantine watched. Most of the villeins did not know where to begin to set matters to rights and merely wandered through the mess, shaking their heads.
Gunter and Gerhard were particularly disheartened. They sat side by each, their gazes glazed, their expressions shocked. There was not so much as a fire kindled or a pot of water put on to boil.
And speculation ran rampant through the ranks of the household. The maids huddled together, cackling like troubled hens. Everywhere she turned, Eglantine heard whispers, whispers that halted when her presence was noted.
The trio of sentries bowed low before her, their apologies hasty and incoherent. “My lady, we slept, I cannot imagine why.”
Eglantine touched their brows, frowning at the sluggishness of their speech. “You drank something before the night?”
“Aye, a cup of grog to keep us warm. Gunther made the brew.”
Eglantine demanded an ingredient list from the cook, surprised to find no sedatives among the herbs he listed. “Did you serve it immediately?”
“Nay, my lady, ’twas too hot. I left it there.” And he pointed to the makeshift table at the edge of his kitchen space.
“And whence were you?”
He pointed to the opposing table. “We began the bread last eve as is our wont.”
Aye, Eglantine could see how someone could have sidled up to the table with the grog, someone who had crept stealthily through the evening shadows. Someone intent on sprinkling an herb or two into the mix that their deeds might not be interrupted.
Someone, indeed.
The priest murmured his rosary over and over again, more folk than usual joining him in his morning prayers. The men nodded sagely and scanned the horizon, as though expecting specters to appear at any moment. All watched their lady arrive and waited expectantly.
Save Louis, who stood with his lips pursed and his eyes downcast, his shredded ledger in his hands. The treasury trunk had had its lock shattered.
Its contents were gone, as was the deed to Ceinn-beithe.
“Did you not have the trunk with you, Louis?”
He shook his head. “Aye, my lady, as is my wont and my responsibility. Sadly, I made the miscalculation of sharing in the grog last evening, for I was chilled to the bone.”
The châtelain fairly exuded disapproval of this circumstance and Eglantine knew he was nigh bursting to observe that had they left sooner, this would not have befallen them. She would not ask for his opinion—and hopefully his manners would compel him to keep it to himself.
For her own part, Eglantine was so angry that her hands shook. Duncan toyed with her apurpose.
And worse, she had been fool enough to forget their competing desires, and that because of his charm. Aye, the man knew his touch troubled her, he knew his kisses unsettled her, he knew this and he persisted.
Because he wanted her to surrender Kinbeath to him. ’Twas so blessedly simple. She had already surrendered more than had been her intent, that much was certain.
She knew that Duncan would stop at naught to see his goal achieved. Clearly he had lied to her the night before. This man wanted no bride and no quest. He wanted Kinbeath alone.
“We have had another visit from the restless souls, my lady,” murmured Gerhard. He shook his head. “And I know not how we shall recover from this.”
“We shall recover from this travesty by pursuing justice,” Eglantine said crisply.
“From the dead?”
“’Twas no restless soul who wrought such destruction, but a party of men who are very much alive.” Her company stirred and eased closer. “Though I do not underestimate the power of souls, mine own father taught me to look first in the realm of men for the source of trouble.” Several chuckled at this and a few comments were exchanged about the good character of the late Lord de Crevy-sur-Seine.
Eglantine warmed to her theme. “Who indeed wants us gone from this place? Who indeed understands what stores we need most and how best to destroy them? ’Tis no specter who wreaks such damage, but a troop of barbarians.” Eglantine turned and pointed a finger that quivered with anger at Duncan’s party, who only now stirred sleepily. “Look how late they slumber—no doubt this labor left them overtired!”
Her vassals muttered impatiently, throwing more than one ugly glance toward Duncan’s party. “And who are they to oust us from land that is rightfully deeded to my hand? ’Tis they who are in breach of the law, ’tis they who shall pay a reckoning!”
“Aye, my lady!” A cheer rose from the assembly, though Louis shook his head.
“With what shall they pay it, my lady?” he asked quietly.
“Firstly with the return of the coin they have stolen from us.” Eglantine gritted her teeth and glared first at her châtelain, then at Duncan’s camp. “Then with the labor of their own hands, if need be. I shall have a penance from them, that much is certain, or there shall be more blood shed on Kinbeath, whether ’tis on that cursed stone or not.”
The company cheered.
Enough was enough. She would demand an audience with whichever king held suzerainty over this land, both if necessary! ’Twas time the law was summoned to resolve this issue.
’Twas somewhat galling that she had need of directions to one king from Duncan, but she was angry enough to not care. Eglantine lifted her hand. “Let us demand compensation! Let us demand justice! Let us demand the king’s own ear, and the assertion of the king’s law. We are the rightful tenants of Kinbeath. Let us demand acknowledgement of our legal right!”
Her household roared approval. Eglantine turned and strode toward the intruders’ camp, determined to declaring her intent.
Aye, with the involvement of a king, any king, this contest would be resolved for once and for all.